**Springlock Symphony**
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**Clockwork**
William Afton had always loved the chorus of gears. The grind and rattle of machinery, the quiet tick at the heart of his creations—nothing compared to it. In the cavernous dark of his secret workshop, far beneath the bright, laughing mouths of the pizzeria, he moved with practiced grace. The springlock suit—his masterpiece—stood before him like an idol. Gleaming in dull brass, it grinned with a cold, mechanical malice.
He stepped closer, his fingers ghosting along its faceplate. “Just one more test,” he whispered. He’d said that before, too many times to count. He could never let it go. Beneath layers of steel and wire, he had hidden himself from the consequences of his choices. He could remember the faces of the children, flickering behind his eyes like ghostly candleflames, but he pushed the memory down. He would master this suit. It would make him untouchable.
Afton unfastened the latched seam at the back, sliding an arm inside. Inside the suit, everything was close. Hot. Heavy. He could almost taste the damp air—oil, sweat, blood, all mingled. He had designed the springlocks himself: tiny traps straining against coiled fury, promising to hold back the metal jaws as long as he never made a mistake. He knew the dangers intimately, and yet he trusted himself to be careful.
The chuckle that escaped him was humorless, muffled by the mask. His breath steamed the hollowed eyes. He flexed, felt the suit’s metal limbs mirror him; copper coils wound tight with tension.
Then, in the overhead pipes, there came a slow drip. At first it was nothing—a distant, steady plink against the concrete. Then, a spray. Water. The old pipes—how had he forgotten? In spring, the place always sweated. But sweat didn’t kill, he told himself. He’d be quick.
A wet bead landed on the suit’s shoulder. Then another. He felt it through the mesh, icy, worming beneath his collar. Somewhere inside, a springlock clicked. Was it real, or his imagination? He froze. There, again—a creaking groan. Something inside the suit gave way.
He moved to step out. The suit bit back.
A sudden, metallic shriek echoed in the workshop as gears snapped loose from their tracks. He screamed. The springlocks fired, all at once. Their voices were a high, giddy chorus, like children laughing, teeth bared. Metal rods plunged into his flesh; the world spun into a kaleidoscope of pain. William’s hand, sticky with blood, beat against his creation, but every movement triggered another snap—another bite.
He couldn’t breathe. All he could hear was the tick of the gears and the racket of his own dying heart. The suit clung to him, its smile eternal, cold, hungry. As his vision blurred, William thought he glimpsed small shadows skirting the edges of the room, candleflame eyes watching.
Above, in the shimmering light, the world still spun on—the laughter of children echoed down the halls, blissfully unaware. Below, William became part of his masterpiece, bones entwined with metal, his shrieks lost in the song of the springlocks—endless and unforgiving.
And in the darkness, the suit grinned, patient as the grave.
This story was generated by user kade with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write me a story about the springlocking/death of William Afton
Response: **Clockwork** William Afton had always loved the chorus of gears. The grind and rattle of machinery, the quiet tick at the heart of his creations—nothing compared to it. In the cavernous dark of his secret workshop, far beneath the bright, laughing mouths of the pizzeria, he moved with practiced grace. The springlock suit—his masterpiece—stood before him like an idol. Gleaming in dull brass, it grinned with a cold, mechanical malice. He stepped closer, his fingers ghosting along its faceplate. “Just one more test,” he whispered. He’d said that before, too many times to count. He could never let it go. Beneath layers of steel and wire, he had hidden himself from the consequences of his choices. He could remember the faces of the children, flickering behind his eyes like ghostly candleflames, but he pushed the memory down. He would master this suit. It would make him untouchable. Afton unfastened the latched seam at the back, sliding an arm inside. Inside the suit, everything was close. Hot. Heavy. He could almost taste the damp air—oil, sweat, blood, all mingled. He had designed the springlocks himself: tiny traps straining against coiled fury, promising to hold back the metal jaws as long as he never made a mistake. He knew the dangers intimately, and yet he trusted himself to be careful. The chuckle that escaped him was humorless, muffled by the mask. His breath steamed the hollowed eyes. He flexed, felt the suit’s metal limbs mirror him; copper coils wound tight with tension. Then, in the overhead pipes, there came a slow drip. At first it was nothing—a distant, steady plink against the concrete. Then, a spray. Water. The old pipes—how had he forgotten? In spring, the place always sweated. But sweat didn’t kill, he told himself. He’d be quick. A wet bead landed on the suit’s shoulder. Then another. He felt it through the mesh, icy, worming beneath his collar. Somewhere inside, a springlock clicked. Was it real, or his imagination? He froze. There, again—a creaking groan. Something inside the suit gave way. He moved to step out. The suit bit back. A sudden, metallic shriek echoed in the workshop as gears snapped loose from their tracks. He screamed. The springlocks fired, all at once. Their voices were a high, giddy chorus, like children laughing, teeth bared. Metal rods plunged into his flesh; the world spun into a kaleidoscope of pain. William’s hand, sticky with blood, beat against his creation, but every movement triggered another snap—another bite. He couldn’t breathe. All he could hear was the tick of the gears and the racket of his own dying heart. The suit clung to him, its smile eternal, cold, hungry. As his vision blurred, William thought he glimpsed small shadows skirting the edges of the room, candleflame eyes watching. Above, in the shimmering light, the world still spun on—the laughter of children echoed down the halls, blissfully unaware. Below, William became part of his masterpiece, bones entwined with metal, his shrieks lost in the song of the springlocks—endless and unforgiving. And in the darkness, the suit grinned, patient as the grave.
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